Guardian Angel
by Sou7h
Summary: Andrew only wanted a talk with Shannon's husband. But sometimes, even wanting a talk can kill you. Now who will save him?


**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything from Hitman.

**Author's Note: **There's a minor racial slur here. Sorry if it offends you, but it was in the game Blood Money.

* * *

Andrew Chiseler pulled onto the dock in his car. He turned off the radio and cut the engine. Even when the AC had been on full blast, he had been sweating a little. Now he was positively sweltering in his suit.

A wooden sign proclaimed "Southland Park." The bright colours had faded; Andrew was surprised it was even standing. Vaguely, he remembered when the amusement park had been every little kid's dream. Today, it was just a rundown junk heap overlooking polluted waters and filled with disgusting vermin. And by disgusting vermin, Andrew didn't mean the seagulls and rats. Southland Park housed an unhealthy number of thugs, punks and prostitutes – not to mention Shannon's husband.

He took a deep breath, although it might have been a sigh. This was no place for a lawyer. Especially not a divorce attorney.

Two guards were smoking by the main gate. Andrew contemplated whether or not to approach them, but they were already walking up to his car.

"Whatcha doin' here, cracker?" One guard asked as soon as the window was rolled down.

The lawyer decided to ignore the racial slur. He'd heard far worse before.

"I'm here to see Joseph Clarence. I tried to call you in advance, but apparently the number I was given was disconnected."

"Yeah?" The gangster looked him up and down. The only people that came here dressed this smart were the serious mobsters from rich, powerful families. "Who ya workin' for?"

"Shannon Leland-Byng – his wife. I'm her divorce attorney. Her lawyer," he added as an afterthought, in case he was using too big a word.

"Lawyer. Hey, don't lawyers got lots of cash on 'em?"

The other guard nodded, spitting out his cigarette butt and grinding it into the pavement with his heel.

Andrew would _not _be intimidated by these uneducated, drug-dealing delinquents. At least, that's what he kept telling himself. "I don't have any on me."

"The way I see it, you ain't payin'. And if you ain't payin', we can't let you in like this."

"We can't let you in like this." Andrew felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine that had nothing to do with heat. Before he could do anything, a hand reached in through the open window and unlocked the car door. A pair of hands grabbed him roughly. They pulled him out of the vehicle and hit him when he resisted.

A fist connected with his nose, sending him reeling. He fell to his knees and got back up, trying to run away, to escape. Fear was in his every footstep, his every breath, his very heartbeat.

"Where ya goin'?"

Someone pushed him from behind. Andrew scraped his palms on the asphalt when he threw his arms out to break his fall. A gangster kicked him viciously in the stomach so that the lawyer lay flat on his back, staring up at two faces that grinned at him.

What happened next fused into an agonizing blur. He squeezed his eyes shut as blow after blow rained on him. A fist in the head, a kick to the stomach. Andrew was having trouble thinking about anything besides the pain. He could taste blood in his mouth and feel it flowing freely down his face.

When it was over, he was on his back once again.

"Hey look, he got a watch."

Andrew stirred feebly as they stripped him of his Rolex.

Someone above him laughed. "He still awake."

Not for long. It could have been a fist or a foot that collided with his temple; he would never know. The cry of gulls was the last thing he heard before he lost the battle with consciousness.

When Andrew woke, he didn't know where he was or how he'd gotten there. His brain was slow and sluggish as though he'd been in a deep sleep rather than passed out. The only thought that came through clearly was the pain. Everything else was muddled.

He tried to wipe some of the blood and sweat off his face, only to find his hands were tied tightly behind his back.

Andrew struggled to get his mind back on track. He realized he was blindfolded. For a moment in the darkness, he had thought that maybe he was dead. But apparently, he wasn't that lucky. Not yet anyway. He focused on what else he could feel.

He knew he was sitting down, slightly slumped. But his legs didn't reach the floor. And instead of sitting like he would in a chair, he was sitting like he was riding a horse.

His brain finally caught on, working at double speed to make up for its delay. Panic flooded him, numbing the pain. Andrew wriggled his hands, the bonds cutting into his wrists. He would die if he tried to escape and he would die if he didn't. So he persisted with the desperation of a cornered man.

"Don't even try."

Andrew froze, his heart likewise skipping a beat. He'd assumed – no, hoped – that he was alone on account of no more racial insults. He had guessed wrong.

"Better. Now, you seem like a pretty smart guy to me. So I shouldn't have to explain to you what happens if you don't answer my questions."

The lawyer swallowed hard, nodding once. The tone of the voice was icy, quiet and low. But it was more than that. It was insidiously dangerous. The punks that had beaten him up earlier were just dumb grunts. This one was the no-nonsense business kind. The kind you didn't mess with.

"You're doing good so far. Keep it up and I might just kill you quick. Painless is a different matter."

His heart rate spiked in his throat. He felt like throwing up. "Please, I'm just a lawyer. I just came to talk to Mr. Clarence about his divorce. I haven't done anything wrong. Please don't kill me…" Andrew pleaded, his voice trembling before it broke on the second last word.

"Who sent you to see Mr. Clarence?"

"His wife – I'm just a divorce attorney."

His interrogator slapped him across the face. "I think you can do better than that."

"It's the truth, I swear! You don't understand. I'm not who you think you are or anything like that," Andrew whimpered.

Slap. "Who do you work for? Which family? Or are you just part of a street gang? Are the rest of your people as pathetic?"

"I'm not a member of a gang!"

"Wrong answer."

Andrew didn't know the right answer, or even if there was one that wouldn't get him killed.

"One last chance."

He didn't know what else to say so he just kept silent.

"Time's up. You're dead."

Warm liquid splashed over his clothes, soaking him to his skin. The sharp, unpleasant odour of gasoline reached his nostrils, making him want to retch.

Andrew felt a thrill of terror. This was it. He was going to die. There would be no funeral with a polished coffin and flowers. There would be no minister to say holy words over his well-dressed, peaceful-looking body. He didn't even know if anyone who gave a damn would even find his corpse.

And then a mysterious thing happened. The interrogator began to choke and splutter as though someone were tightening a wire around his neck.

And then there was silence.

"Help!" Andrew suddenly cried without thinking. "Help me!"

The scream hurt his dry throat, but he didn't care. He didn't care that another thug was most likely to hear him and come to finish the job. He kept screaming, hoping that someone would listen.

But no one answered.

A third person had been here earlier; that Andrew was sure of. A person that had come and saved his life at the last moment and spared him whatever cruel fate had been in store for him. Someone, if indeed it was a person, had protected him and then vanished with barely a trace, never meant to be seen or heard. Like a guardian angel.

Or a ghost.


End file.
